I Didn't Answer
by Kayn McCarty
Summary: Attn: This has been revised. A growing contribution in the name of NGE stories (without the copyright violation)
1. I Didn't Answer Revised

Disclaimer- the events and/or characters in the story are entirely fictional. Any similarities between true anime characters and events are purely coincidental. Also, no anime characters were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

P.S.: Don't sue me.

                "It's hot."

                I didn't answer. Maybe it was the humidity that bothered her. Maybe I did. I didn't know, and right now, I didn't really care. I just allowed myself to relax further, sinking slowly into a soft state of numb, near-static trance as my eyes began to close. What did it matter if I answered or not? Would it really affect the outcome? It wasn't likely. 

                "Hey, are you listening?" I opened my right eye and stared for a moment. She was getting mad with me. I probably missed hearing something she had said about the weather or another question directed at me. Whatever it was, I doubted it had any life-threatening importance. And every time I chose to not answer, she would get more and more irate with me, eventually causing her to either yell at me or storm out in frustration.

                Don't get me wrong; I love her more than I could ever tell her. Ever since we worked together, I felt a special kind of bond, spiritual if not mental. I'd never tell anyone of course, but I know she doesn't need my words to know how I feel. She feels it too. In five years of being together, I have never doubted that fact.

                So, why do I choose not to answer, to ignore her questions and accusations and pretend that I just don't hear? I don't know. Maybe it has to do with the chemistry generated when she gets mad, that compound that awakens the passionate spirit within me. Some may call it unhealthy or an odd sort of fetish, but I simply see it as one way to exist from day to day.

                I open my other eye and focus on her eyes; strong and defiant blue mirrors glaring in my own. I still do not reply, my eyes traveling to her delicate white neck. She is a young woman of great beauty, a thing of poets' works and artists' portraits. A goddess incarnate you might say. 

                "What?" I ask, a slight smile coming to my lips. If she could kill with a glare, then I'd have been on my way to the great beyond several years ago. Luckily, this is only a thought entertained in the back of my head, and right now I'm concerned more with handling her rising temper than my own humor.

                "You weren't listening, were you?"

                I don't answer, but continue to smile and stare into her eyes.

                "I knew it! You always do this! Why? Why do you do this?"

                "Why do you let it get to you?" Here it came, the Game. First pitch.

                "You're avoiding the point. I asked you a question first." 

Swing batter.

                "And it's the same one we always get to, isn't it?" Second pitch.

                "Only because you never answer it." Swing.

                "I answer, but you never like to hear what I have to say." Strike.

                Her fists are clenched now. It is around this time that she either blows up in my face or continues to push her anger down, building pressure for what will surely be a climatic demonstration of curses and storming out of the room.

                My own personal warning is going off: If I push too far, the balance will tip and I'll be unable to approach her for several hours. If I don't push enough, then what I've been building will have come to nothing. Better to avert her attention now and cool her down than try to make her temper worse.

                I walk past her, sliding the door to our room open and stepping into the living room. I look to the table: We left the takeout cartons on the table again, and a few cans are lying on the floor. Great, another mess to clean up. I cross slowly to the table, kneeling and slowly picking up the cans that I can reach, putting them on the table.

                "What? What do you think you're doing? If you think you can just drop the conversation there and do something else, you've got another thing coming mister!" She's after me like a hound on the hunt. Once she smells blood (or thinks she does), she pursues it until the end, no matter how well you cover up.

                "You're just getting mad at me. If that's what it comes to, I'm not going to stand there and let you use me as some sort of doll for insults." I continue to pick up the cans slowly, counting each of them to myself as I set them on the table. Six…Eight…Ten! Geez, when did we ever drink that many in one meal? I slide the cartons into one another and turn my head to look at her. She's gone quiet, at least for the moment. I wonder which way her emotional pendulum will swing now. I can almost see tears in her eyes, of rage or sadness I'm not sure.

                "But why, why do you always have to be so difficult?

                "Why do you always have to fly off the handle at every mistake I make or comment I have?" The Game continues.

                "I do not fly off the handle. **You** are always trying to get me angry."

                "Not difficult dear." Third pitch. However, I think that was an unfair play. I can see that I've struck a nerve. Walk one man to first base. I turn my head back to my work and begin picking up the stack of cartons. There's some leftover General Tso's Chicken. Blecch! It stinks! I walk past her to the kitchen counter. This little one-bedroom apartment isn't much to look at, but we both agreed that it was all we would need. I set the cartons down on the counter and spin on my heels to go get the cans. I come face to face with those blue eyes again, and though I've seen them a million times before, many of these as close as I am now, I am still shocked at her sudden proximity.

                "There you go again avoiding me. I swear, if you keep dodging like this, we can't keep living together." First base runner is trying to steal second.

                "Dodging, is that what you call it?" I picked up the cartons and, after lifting the lid of the garbage can, dropped the cartons with a soft metallic thump, "I simply see it as avoiding a fight while you're in a bad mood." I step to the side, making a line to the cans on the table. Tucking them into the crook of my left arm one by one, I plan my next move. I need to come up with something quickly, to get her away from the argument until I'm ready.

                "How is it that we never clean our messes until the next day?" 

                Throwing to second base.

                I turn, and she's looking me in the face, her eyes once again burning with fury incredible as her passion. This is getting interesting. She pokes a finger into my face, and I'm forced to back against the table, banging my calves against the edge.

                "Don't change the subject; I'm not through with this discussion!"

                "Argument." She pauses, holding back either a slap or some random curse from escaping her trembling lips. She is beautiful, even when she's in a rage and ready to tear my head off. At any rate, runner is out at second base, and the next batter is stepping up.

                "Stop contradicting me!"

                "Stop being so angry." First pitch.

                "**You're** the one who's pissing me off." Swing batter. Looks like she's not going to back off this time. Fine with me; I guess I'll try my hand at hardball.

                "Only because you can't control your temper." Strike. She huffs at me in frustration, and I take this opportunity to step past her and cross to the counter. I should wash out the cans before I put them in the recycling bin; it's practically a miracle she didn't knock them from me. I let the cans fall from my arm into the sink and let the cold water run for a moment before I start rinsing them out.

                I look up. She hasn't moved from her spot, not even to turn around. The gently shimmering sweat on her neck brings back to my mind previous summers we'd spent together, the drops leaving a tantalizing trail down to areas as of now unseen. Her loose pale-yellow tank top sticks to her where the sweat has soaked her body, and her shorts, those sky-blue short shorts that hug her figure; it's almost too much to bear watching. I'm even starting to feel the heat now, a small band of sweat forming at my own hairline.

                "Hey, still breathing over there?" I chuckle to myself. She doesn't respond. I turn off the faucet, drying my hands on a nearby dishtowel and then walking slowly to her. Her fists are clenched so tightly that the knuckles are white. Her shoulders are shaking, a sign that she's on the verge of either screaming at me or running out of the room crying.

                "Hon?" I place my hand on her right shoulder. She pulls away and spins about to face me.

                "Don't try and talk your way out of this, I am not finished with you yet!" The anger in her eyes is almost to the level of rancor, and I suddenly feel the strength leaving my body and the sweat running down my face. She eyes me at this moment much like I used to eye my father when I used to work for him. Luckily, we have love between us to ease the confrontation, unlike my father and I.

                "All right, you win. You tell me what's wrong." I had better play defensive instead of hardball, or else she'll have my scalp as a war prize. I've seen the damage of her wrath, and it's not pretty.

                She loosens her fists. At least I'm not going to get hit this time. The last time we argued she gave me a bruised shoulder, a casualty of battle. She had apologized for it later making full sure that I not only accepted the apology, but that I was feeling better despite my injuries. Now she wants to wage a diplomatic battle, one that I'm more than ready to engage in.

                "You know how mad I get when you ignore me. I had asked you a simple question, and you ignored me."

                "What was the question?"

                "Don't interrupt me; you know how much that pisses me off."

                "Yes."

                "Anyway, like I was saying, I had asked a question, and you had ignored me. When I pressed you for an answer, you just smiled at me stupidly and refused to answer."

                "What was the question? I can't possibly answer a question I don't know." Second pitch. She's not going to like that, but I can't just stand here and take it.

                "There you go again. Stop interrupting me!"

                Swing. Strike.

                She's losing her temper again. Sometimes she can be so proud and arrogant. But, these can be good traits as well: she has a will of iron and a die-hard philosophy when it comes to overcoming obstacles.

                "Just calm down please. I'm only bringing up something that I think is important to this discussion." I have a good curve ball prepared is she wants to try and switch-hit on me.

                "What's important here is your attitude, not my question." Her voice has dropped dangerously in tone. I have to move quickly, or else I'll be out of luck and my day's work all for nothing.

                "That's the whole basis of this argument. Like it or not, this whole thing started because of that question." Third pitch. The anger is starting to fade from hr eyes, and relief washes silently over me.

                "I know, but we simply can't ignore your attitude!" Strike. Second batter is out, third batter steps up to the plate. She's looking for an avenue to shift the argument to. She hates losing, and even more admitting she made a mistake.

                By now she's crossed her arms in front of her, a drop of sweat dripping off he chin onto her shirt. She is even more beautiful than before, a lingering haze of angry energy still clinging to her, adding a powerful, intelligent, and sensuous nature to her presence.

                "I know. You're right. I was being a little rude." First pitch. A flare of anger, and her eyes are glaring again.

                "A little? You were being damn arrogant with me. I am not the one who was causing the problem."

                Swing. Strike.

                "Maybe we should talk about this when you're a little calmer." Second pitch.

                "Calmer? I am calm! And no, we aren't saving this for later."

                Swing. Strike.

                She's bound and determined to prove that I was wrong. "By the way, when did the discussion switch to **my** attitude? We were talking about **your** attitude."

                Damn! She's more prepared for me this time around than I had expected. I've got to pitch something really good this time, or else I lose the Game and lose the progress I've made.

                Catcher signs a one and pitcher shakes his head. Catcher changes sign to a two, the pitcher again shakes his head. A three is signed, and the pitcher hesitates.

                "Not only was your attitude lousy, but, rather than try and solve the argument, you dodged it every time you could."

                He hesitates. The catcher signs again.

                "You need to stop dodging and start taking some initiative. Things will only change when you change you attitude. Am I right?"

                I can't believe I can't come up with some sort of counter to this! Certainly there must be something I can use to still win this argument.

                The batter is getting impatient. The catcher signs a three again.

                Damn!

                The pitcher hesitates.

                She gets better with every argument, and if I'm not careful, I'll lose this one for sure. I can't give in to this, not when I'm so close to seeing victory.

                "Are you listening?" Her eyes, once filled completely with anger are now outlined with a soft, innocent desire. I know what she wants from me. She wants me to admit my wrongs and continue on with living peacefully: if I admit, she'll forgive me and go back to being the proud and caring girl I've come to enjoy these past five years.

                Wait a minute. That's it!

                The pitcher nods.

                "Okay, I admit I approached this with a lousy attitude. I'm sorry for not listening to you, and I'll try to change my approach to this from now on." Third pitch.

                Her arms are still crossed, but her face lightens again as a proud smile comes to her face. She unfolds her arms and takes a step closer. I can feel the heat from her and smell her sweat. The haze of energy has changed, and I can feel my own passion and desire increasing: she'll never know what hit her.

                "There, you see, now that we agree we can go back to normal."

                Swing. Strike.

                "I guess you're right."

                The teams switch positions, and the first batter steps up to the plate.

                "Of course I'm right. Why wouldn't I be?" First pitch.

                "Only because you haven't admitted to overreacting just a little bit."

                I suddenly feel the anger flare up again. I need to move fast, or she's going to knock me flat.

                "Overreacting! I was not..."

                I wrap my arm around her waist and draw her close, pressing my lips against hers with all the passion and desire I'd been holding onto for this moment. She struggles for a moment, more from surprise than actual resistance, pressing her hands against my shoulders, then stops fighting, instead enjoying, even encouraging my kiss, sending to me her own built up passion and desire.

                We hold that kiss for several minutes, and then pull our lips gently apart. She looks at me, eyes gazing loving and longing into mine, then starting to harden again. She's going to play tough.

                "You know, this doesn't excuse you from your promise. You can't do this every time you g..." I kiss her again, lending my passion to her and pulling her even closer. Again she responds, her hands feeling my neck and head as the kiss lingers on.

                After what seemed an eternity, our lips parted again. She looked into my eyes again, and all I saw was a smile.

                "I hate you, do you know that?" She ruffles the chestnut hair I've let grow out some since I quit working for my father affectionately, and I smile in response.

                Home Run!

                "I know," I respond, and then kiss her again, my hands gently reaching down and squeezing her butt. She wraps her arms around my neck and presses herself against me, the heat between us rising steadily. We stop kissing, and she lays her head on my shoulder.

                "I love you."

                I kiss her neck gently, "I love you too." I continue to kiss her neck, giving light pecks at spots I know she's sensitive to. She cranes her neck to expose more of it to me, and I gladly cover the soft, white expanse of her perfect skin. I run a hand through her beautiful red hair, careful not to pull it as I feel its silky smoothness. She responds to my touch, gently pressing into my hand. I smile at this tenderness and then and then begin to run my finger over her neck. She twitches slightly at this touching, and I pull my hand away.

                "It tickles." She smiles at me; the look in her eyes a desire for me to touch her more. My own heart pounds louder as I start to caress her again, this time gently brushing her shoulders and arms with my fingertips, making her eyes close. I know she is enjoying the feeling, the feeling of just being touched be my hand. This is a side she shows to me and me alone.

                We move into the bedroom and lie down next to each other. Before we continue, she looks and smiles at me tenderly. I reciprocate this, and then I kiss her again, moving on to more passionate heights as we continue our lovemaking.

                I guess some people might call this some sort of odd love/hate relationship, but I merely see it as meting out our existence together in the best way we possibly can manage. Also, I really don't care about what others think, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't either.

                Funny isn't it, how strangers are thrown together by chance, to grow to love one another and to find peace in their life? From chaos comes order, I guess. I don't know how my life would've changed had I not met her, but I'm almost certain it would never have been the same.

                After we finish, we hold each other tightly, the silence speaking for us. She pushes herself into me even more, the soft touch of her skin and the weight of her head on my chest an even stronger assurance that I do not need to fear being alone, nor fear facing the future.

                A thought occurs to me, and I half-chuckle, half-sigh to myself. She looks up to me, her blue eyes curious and concerned.

                "I wonder what our friends would think of this. Of us being together, living together, being in love." Her eyes harden a little, and she sets her head on my chest again, gently stroking my chest with an open hand.

                "The dead care not for the dead," she says softly, and then hugs me. I hug her back, my mind considering what she said, even as I begin to drift into sleep.

                _The dead care not for the dead. _

Please, feel free to review. I am sorry if I offend any fans of the series.


	2. The Sleeper Awakes Revised

Once again, my attempt at writing Eva fan fiction. I do not own Evangelion or its characters: If I did, I wouldn't be writing these stories, I'd be working on a new one.

This is the next installment in my "I Didn't Answer" series. I hope you enjoy.

Five minutes.

            I know that time is not long since my umbilical cable has been destroyed, but I must cover units one and two while they dispose of the attackers. Preparations for defense have been made, but somehow they've broken through into the Geofront. Our defenses have been able to keep the enemy troops from invading headquarters though.

            The pilot of Unit Two is holding her own; there's no need to protect her. The Dummy System Units are being defeated. I have to be here, despite Commander Ikari's orders. More needs to be done. They will not reach Central Dogma.

            Crunch!

            Damage sustained to left arm. Activating Progressive Blade. I sink the blade into the Dummy Unit's neck, just below its jaw where it is biting me, and pull hard across it. The blade cuts through easily, severing the head, which I peel from Unit Zero's arm quickly with the Progressive Blade.

            Dummy Plug.

            Moving to immobilize the unit before it can reactivate, I pull the entry plug panel from the unit's back. When the Dummy Plug emerges from its chamber, I pull it out and crush it in my grip: Five more Dummy Units to be immobilized.

            Four minutes.

            Moving to the next target, which is presently engaged with Unit One, I place myself in between the two, pulling the Dummy Unit off of Unit One. Wrestling with the Dummy Unit, I manage to get it into a headlock. Tightening my grip, I break the Dummy Unit's neck, and its struggling arms fall silent. Once again, I rip the entry plug panel open and crush the Dummy Plug: Four Dummy Units remain.

            "Idiot, stay out of my way!" The pilot of Unit Two is handling three Dummy Units, one of which Unit One is moving to engage. She should not be so angry with pilot Ikari: it detracts from combat efficiency. I search for the fourth Dummy Unit, and then spot it, preparing to throw…

            Lance of Longinus! Pilot Ikari is in danger. I must defend Unit One!

            Throwing myself in between Ikari and the Lance, I allow Unit Zero to receive the full length of it in my chest and neck. Throat hurts. Heart feels damaged.

            "Ayanami!"

            "Ikari…" I whisper, and then black out as the shock reaches me.

            _And in international news today, a small office building in Paris was bombed in the evening, leaving three dead and at least a dozen seriously injured…_

            I am awake. I see white. It's the ceiling. My eyes blink several times, and my head rises to look around. It's painful to move. I haven't seen this place before. It looks like a hospital. A television is on, lying on a nearby table at the foot of my bed, with an attractive female newscaster reporting from somewhere.

            Somewhere…

            "Where am I?" The words barely escape my lips, but there is no response to my question. I lean my neck to the right. There is a young man, possibly in his late teens, early 20s in the room with me. He looks asleep, resting, but not peaceful. A pair of broken glasses sits on the small table next to him, taped on the nose and one of the legs to hold it together.

            Broken glasses…

            "Good morning sleeping beauties." Finding the roots of what strength I have, I manage to sit up and look in the direction of the voice. My body stiffens in pain, but I fight the tears and see the nurse, my strength rapidly draining.

            The accompanying fall and clatter of the tray she is carrying is the last thing I register before I fall back upon the bed and consciousness slips away.

            When I awaken again, I feel the sting of my last physical actions, sharp and merciless in my skin, my weakened muscles, even in the soft flesh of my own breasts. I groan gently, not because of the pain, but because of my inability to move I must have weakened myself too much in that last vestige of movement.

            "Look, she's awake again doctor," I hear the nurse, her voice quivering, with fear or excitement I am not sure. The gentle pad of footsteps, and then a light, bright and horribly obtrusive, is shone into my eyes. It hurts, but I can't push the light away.

            "Follow the light with your eyes," a male voice instructs me. I do, though the experience is not pleasant. When he pulls the light away, small glares of red and yellow fades as my eyes readjust. The doctor is an older man, with thinning brown hair and thin-frame glasses. He regards me with a cool expression I take to be professional courtesy, but smiles at me when he notices I am paying attention.

            "Can you speak?"

            "Yes," I answer him weakly, my own throat tight and somewhat hoarse. I am surprised at the sound of my own voice, like finding something I'd lost.

            "What is your name?"

            I consider this question, tossing it around in my memory. However, I can find no answer to the question, only an empty echo where it should be. Why isn't it there?

            "I can't remember." The doctor and nurse exchange looks, and then turn from me to speak in hushed tones to one another, though I can hear it clearly.

            "There was no brain damage, I'm sure of it,"

            "Doctor, could it be amnesia? We did find both her and the boy over there together, shortly after that nasty catastrophe in Japan. There were head injuries on both patients when we brought them in."

            "Well, amnesia is a possibility. Just in case though, I will order a new M.R.I.* for her. I want to be absolutely sure we're not dealing with any form of brain damage."

            It is not long before I am taken from my room, laid upon a table, and slowly drawn into an M.R.I. tube by mechanical belt. The medical technician told me to hold as still as I could. I understand and do as he instructs, lying perfectly still as he starts the machine. The drone of the machine is loud and distracting, but at the same time relaxing and the gentle vibrations I can feel soothing, the ache in my body receding. Within minutes, I have drifted off; sleep finding me, even in here.

            I can feel it corrupting me, the 16th Angel entering and polluting my entire being. It hurts so much, the rough push of itself into my skin, my veins, and my body. It is an invasion as disgusting as it is terrifying. This is how it will end, how I will end.

            Wait! The pain is leaving, but why? I look across the field. Pilot Ikari is here, and it's going after it. Shooting it seems to have no effect. If one of us can't stop it, it will surely corrupt us both. I cannot allow that to happen.

            Inverting my AT Field, I give the Angel an opportunity to take me, to corrupt me. Pilot Ikari must carry on, must survive this ordeal. With tears on my face, I prepare to self-destruct Unit Zero, the pain almost too much to bear as I reach for the handle.

            "Ayanami, no!" Ikari cries over the com. Unit One rushes forward, coming within radius of where the blast will be. I can't destroy Unit Zero, Ikari and Unit One are in danger.

            Ikari has inverted his AT Field as well. The Angel is going after him now too. I try to hold it back, but am already in too much pain to move Unit Zero. I expand my AT Field to overlap Unit One's, and the Angel stops moving, writing against the pull of the field. Pilot Ikari grabs the Angel, and expands his AT Field as over mine as well. What is he doing?

            The Angel struggles, but seems to be immobilized by both the inverted fields. It struggles for several minutes, trying to pull free and come after one of us, but it cannot move further to corrupt Unit Zero nor can it attack Unit One. It stops moving for a moment, then detonates, sending both Unit One and I flying. When we land, I hit my head and pass out.

            "Alright miss, your test is over. Time to get you back to your room," I hear as I awaken. I am now outside the tube, and a name comes to my lips.

            "Ikari," I say aloud. The technician eyes me for a moment, and then helps to sit me up. I am not as strong as I want to be, and my body still aches badly.

            "What did you say miss?"

            "Ikari. I remember that name. But where from?" As he slips me into a wheelchair, I wonder who Ikari is, what Ikari does, and why that name comes back to me, so familiar, and yet not my own.

            "Well miss, just keep trying to remember things. It will all eventually come back to you," he told me as I was wheeled back to my room, which made me feel better, a smile crossing my lips. I feel a little odd doing it, but I guess it's because I can't remember anything.

            When we enter the room, I am surprised by what I see. The young man I'd seen earlier is awake, with a weak smile on his face. His light brown hair shines softly in the daylight, and his friendly, intelligent eyes stare at me through his broken frames as the nurse assists me into my bed and sits on the edge of it. Her face is bright and cheery, a nice change from the shock and disbelief of this morning.

            "When did he wake up?" I ask her, suddenly very curious. The nurse gives me a look of interest, her eyes glimpsing me, then the young man, and back to me again. Her smile shows a hint of laughter, and I meet her gaze, confused.

            "He woke up about an hour before you came back from the M.R.I.," she told me then, taking notice of his gaze, gently nudged me with her elbow, "I think he likes you. He is cute, isn't he?" Her accompanying giggle made her seem younger than her late-twenties, early-thirties appearance.

            Cute? Was he? I didn't really know. I had never seriously thought that way about guys, or had I? He did seem nice though, and was definitely interested in watching me. Every time I looked, he met my eyes as if he had something to tell me.

            "What's his name?" I ask the nurse. Her smile fades, and she looks to him, slowly turning back to face me. Her face is sympathetic now, her reasoning I am unsure of.

            "We don't know."

            "Why not ask him?"

            "His vocal cords were damaged when we found him. It will take surgery and rehabilitation to revive his voice. Also, he had several spinal injuries when we found him. We've repaired what we could, but it will be a decent amount of time before he writes again, let alone walk. Come to think of it, you were the lucky one."

            Lucky one? What did she mean? I give another look of confusion to her, uncomfortable as it is, and she nods with understanding.

            "That's right, you have amnesia. Well, we found the two of you four years ago on the coast, shortly after that horrid explosion in Japan. Somehow, you were barely injured at all, just in a coma. This poor young man however, was badly injured; we were barely able to save him. And so it went, the both of you in these very same beds. He came out of coma only two months ago, and, with you being out of coma now, means the two of your have been here for four years in total."

            "Four years?" How old am I? I look to him once again, my mind returning to the one memory I still hold.

            "Ikari?"

            The nurse gives me a new look of surprise, and then looks to the young man.

            "Well, you two are just full of surprises, aren't you?" I don't answer, unsure of how to respond. She laughs a little, and then rises from my bed, "I have some more rounds to do, but I'll be back to check on you two later. Have fun kids."

            When she leaves, I lay my head against my pillow; is he the Ikari I know? Repeating it in my own mind and placing his image next to it just doesn't fit; he is not Ikari. I feel sleep coming upon me, and I let it take me, my mind awash with new thoughts, ideas, and questions. But, I will save them for tomorrow. Turning my head to look at the young man, I smile, this time more comfortable with it.

            "I hope to know you soon," I tell him, and then allow my eyes to shut, falling away into a dreamy state of slumber.

M.R.I.- Magnetic Resonance Imaging

Stay tuned for the next chapter. I hope you've enjoyed the story thus far.


	3. An Uncold Heart

            Hooray for the muses! Once again with the legal stuff: I do NOT own Evangelion or its characters. If I did, I wouldn't have so many college bills. Oh well, enjoy the story anyway.

            This morning another office bombing was added to the list of recent connected chain bombings that have been plaguing Western Europe for the past few months, this time in Germany, with six confirmed dead and ten seriously injured. The death tolls to this point are fifteen confirmed dead, with the likelihood of an increase as more of the seriously injured die of wounds…

            I use the remote to shut off the television. It is suspected by experts that these bombings are the result of a rogue terrorist cell or extreme activist militia, seeing as all the bombings have killed members of or supporters of the U.N.

            I simply shrug to myself: with all the incidents occurring in Western Europe, why should I worry, with where I am?

            Over the past three months, both the young man and I have started to rebuild our lives, starting with our bodies. The therapists have been very kind and gentle to me, and I've just started to walk with support from a cane. I learned from the nurse that we are in Russia near the eastern coastline, though she wouldn't tell where exactly. When I tried to pry further, she asked for my help in giving my roommate his meal.

I don't mind though: he's always in a pleasant mood, despite his pain and the difficulty of his therapy, particularly his speech therapy. He still cannot speak, but he can grunt and groan now. That and he can move his arms and legs with little flexibility. 

The nurse says he's a living miracle. I say it's just the miracle of medical technology, combined with a stubborn and lively patient. He actually has pinched me before, on my hip! I still don't understand why, but the nurse thought my reaction was hilarious, and he seemed to feel the same.

"See that? I told you he liked you," she had told me and let out another laugh. For some reason, I had felt my face get hot and my stomach tighten. Was that embarrassment? Why did I feel it?

But today he is in rare form, a broad smile on his lips. As I set myself on the edge of his bed, he pinches my hip again. I immediately get to my feet, slamming my cane down to keep my balance. I've gone hot in the face again and tight in the stomach. I slap his hand, trying my best to form a small scowl. But, am I really angry with him? I don't know.

The nurse laughs at me again, and I turn the scowl to her. Why is everything always so funny?

She notices my scowl, then sighs, "Okay, I'm sorry young miss," and then looking to my roommate, "Now you behave yourself young man." He only gave an innocent stare and shrugged his shoulders. 

I set myself down on the bed again, and he lets me be. I let my scowl fade and my smile return: I like the way my smile feels better. Besides, there is no need for me to be mad: I guess this will become his way of being nice until his voice comes back.

"Time for your food, my boy," the nurse says cheerfully as she presents his food tray. Since he can't move his mouth as freely as I, his food has been processed for easier chewing and swallowing. Lately I've been helping the nurse more with his treatment, mostly feeding him while she prepares him for his therapy and talking to him for the sake of company.

"How are you this morning?" I ask him. He only smiles in response, giving his best impression of a "thumbs-up" with a trembling hand. I take the food tray from the nurse, whose smile can only allude to how cute she thinks the two of us are. I feel like rolling my eyes, but I hold myself back, instead nodding compliantly to her and bringing the tray close to him. I grab the spoon on the tray, gathering a few slices of softened boiled carrots on it, the spoon actually cutting a slice in half as I gather them. If he had more flexibility, he could probably feed himself. But, until he's stronger and more flexible, he still has to be fed by someone else.

Doing my job, I bring the carrots to his mouth, which he opens, though somewhat reluctantly, and takes the spoonful in, chewing it slowly, and then swallowing as hard as he can. His face is bunched up as he swallows, and then he sticks out his tongue in disgust. His expression makes me smile more. He is amusing with his face like that.

"You can't be picky, you need your strength," I tell him. He gives me a look of complaint, his lips drawn up tight toward his nosed. I only shake my head, and then gather more carrots to feed him. A grunt of protest escapes his lips just moments before I push the spoon into his mouth, and he makes a disgusted face again. Swallowing hard, he groans miserably.

"If he could only speak," the nurse says, "Alright, my boy, finish eating so that we can get you and your girlfriend to therapy." Her smile suppresses her laughter, and I rise quickly, forgetting my cane.

"He is not my boyfriend," I nearly shout, a scowl crossing my face, then the shock of falling replacing the anger as I lose my balance. I land on his bed, bounce momentarily, and then end up lying with my head on his chest and my legs dangling off the side. He's warm, and he smells like clean laundry, pleasant and comforting.

I feel his hand on my head, gently patting my hair and weakly gripping strands of it in his fingers. My face grows hot again, and I push against his chest to sit up. The nurse, though concern shows in her eyes, I can clearly read a hint of amusement at my situation.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." I grab my cane and stand, leaning on it heavily. Why do I feel embarrassed about this? There's nothing embarrassing about it: just a mere accident. It could happen to anyone in my situation, anyone.

I look to him. He seems embarrassed too, a slight blush on his face. It is in this though I notice something else, something deeper than the embarrassment, and it brings the rest of his face to life. A few scars still remain quite visible. The nurse told me he'd been badly cut up when they found him, but that most of the scars had disappeared as he healed over the four years. Now, only the deepest and longest scars can be seen, one on his left jaw under the ear, one on his right cheek just below the bottom of his eyeglass frames and running half the length of the cheek, and a final one crossing his right temple diagonally.

His eyes gaze into mine, and I feel a familiarity I hadn't known before, or had I? They were gentle, intelligent, and looked desperate to speak out loud, maybe even shout and scream to me. I am not sure if they could what would be said, but he does seem very eager to let me know what it is he does.

"Okay you lovebirds," the nurse interrupts my thoughts, "Off to therapy." She has the wheelchair ready for him, and looks expectedly to me to move so she can assist him in. Wait a moment…

"His meal," I say, looking about for the tray. I find that she has removed the tray from easy reach, and I start to move toward it.

"He can eat when he gets back. You can help him finish. You two have wasted enough time as it is. Come on now, time to go."

I scowl again. He needs to eat what he can; otherwise he'll be too weak to work.

"He needs to finish first, or else he won't have the strength to finish his exercises," I stand firmly between the wheelchair and bed, unsure of how long I can hold the intimidating pose. My body begins to quiver, my knees shaking in order to keep me standing tall. There's my answer, I guess.

For a long time the nurse and I lock gazes, a contest of wills. Somehow, despite my shaking knees, I manage to get her to look away.

"Alright, finish his meal, but hurry it up," she says, her tone irritated but not mad. I know she has a job to do, as do I.

Turning and reaching for the tray, I feel his hand gently grasp my wrist. I look to him, curious as to what he wants to tell me.

With a smile on his face, he gives me a thumbs-up. His eyes are laughing, and it makes my face flush. He really is an amusing man.

"If only you could talk," I tell him, and then reach for his food tray to finish his meal.

I lean confidently against the cane, my legs holding their own as we return from therapy. My brown-haired companion hardly slowed now, flies past me on his crutches.

"Hey you, slow down!" I yell to him. Ever since he got the strength back in his arms he's lost all his earlier inhibitions. The doctors say that it will still be another six months or so until he can start speaking again: He's come a long way in two months. 

I speed up my pace, the cane thumping in time. I would have been off the cane earlier, but the doctors found a small fragment of bone had splintered off my leg and was causing irritation in the muscle tissue. So, they removed it surgically, and I had to stay off my leg until it healed enough to walk on again, a three-week delay. Now he's caught up to me, maybe even surpassed me. This sucks.

I walk into the doorway: my friend is already at his bed, a small package lies between his knees, wrapped in what appears to be the remnants of a paper bag taped together, the mailing address written in black permanent marker, but no return address.

"Who's it from?" I inquire, making my way over to his bed. He looks up from the package, shrugs with a smile, and then resumes his search of the package, poking, prodding, and bending it slightly.

"Well, did it blow up?" the nurse asks. I turn quickly: How does she manage to sneak up on us? I'd swear she had the power to nullify sound. However, her smile eases me, making up for the entire emotional stir she creates.

I shake my head. Her smile widens, and she lets out a small laugh. Judging from the confusion I am showing, she sighs and explains, "It was delivered while you two were in therapy. I thought I'd let him find it when he got back."

"Who's it from?"

"Your benefactor," she tells me simply, then crosses her arms: something else she doesn't want to tell me about, that she'll avoid saying at all costs. Despite the fact that she's been so kind, the secrets she's kept from us are beginning to gnaw at my brain, and the questions will not rest, and it angers me that I don't know what's going on.

"The benefactor we have heard nothing from or about," I respond. I don't mean to be bitter, but my voice carries a small sting that the nurse seems to take offense to. She steps up to me and looks me in the face. She is so close now that I can smell her deodorant.

"Without your benefactor you two would still both be vegetables, perhaps even dead. I would not be so disrespectful." She places her hands on her hips and takes a step back, "He even goes to the trouble to deliver a gift, and all you can feel is bitterness." Her eyes meet mine, and their anger makes my stomach hurt.

"If he cares so much, he should come around." I snap back, fighting the cramp I'm feeling. I'm tired if all the secrets, the lies that are being fed to me. I refuse to acknowledge them any more. I can't remember anything from my life before I awakened, and now these people are trying to hand me a life that is not my own, one in which they can manipulate me like some sort of hellish puppet.

"I am not a doll!"

The nurse steps back, a look of shock replacing her anger. My arms shake, and hot tears stream down my cheeks. I do not wipe them away: why should I, when tears are all that will replace the ones I've taken away? 

His hand is the next thing I am aware of, gently gripping my shoulder. I turn to him, a drizzle of tears making my eyesight blurry, but I can clearly see his smile. Strangely, his hand feel good to me, sudden warmth on my shoulder that wasn't there before, giving it a new definition and form. I reach up and touch his hand, soft in my grip.

Though his eyes are sympathetic, his smile is excited, and he brings my attention to his lap. In it is a notebook with several markers, each with a carrying thong to wear around the neck.

"Good, now you'll be able to communicate with everyone," the nurse says, a little ruffled, but otherwise back to being normal. He nods and, with a wink to me, places one of the markers around his neck.

"Then I guess I'll leave you two for now. I have a few rounds to make. Be back later," the nurse says as she excuses herself. We both nod, waiting impatiently for her to leave.

When she is gone from sight, I sit onto his bed, scooting closer to him so as not to fall off. He seems a little surprised by the sudden proximity, but adjusts quickly, whipping open the notebook and the marker from its cap. His writing is a little clumsy at first, but it quickly takes form. When he finishes writing, he displays it to me.

_Do you really not remember anything from before the explosion?_

"No, I don't remember much of anything before the hospital. Just a single name that isn't my own: Ikari."

His eyes light up with excitement, and he quickly writes something else down.

_I don't know what happened to him, but I can help you get your memory back._

"You can? Do you really know who I am?" This could be it, the past locked in my memory, far from sight and beyond the dark border of my memory.

He nods, scribbling just one phrase on his notebook, and then holding it up for me to see.

_You're name is Rei._


	4. Faith in Fate

You must pardon the rate at which my stories are written; I have college, two running online stories to deal with, and not enough caffeine to keep me awake.

Anyway, if the owners of Evangelion or its characters happen to read this, Seele has forced me to do this, so don't sue me, please!

            _"Mary, since I've come of out my coma I've been rebuilding my life," Justin started, unsure of how to bring himself to confess to her how his heart burned, how the desire filled every shred of his being to have her._

_            "Justin?"_

            "I love you Mary!" He burst out, leaning forward in his bed to embrace her. She fell into his arms, and they kissed, the heat of passion setting their desires aflame in their…

            I feel a poke on my shoulder. Anxious to finish the book I'm reading, I turn my head slightly, annoyed that I was interrupted at the climax of Justin and Mary's love confession.

            _Don't you know that reading that stuff will make mush of your brains?_

            I half-smile, half-scowl at the note now dangling inches from my face, the handwriting more than familiar to me. I know he's only teasing me, but I personally like these romance stories.

Gently folding the corner of my page over to mark it, I close the nurse's copy of A Love Awakened and look to my compatriot, tracing the line of his arm to his smiling face, broken glasses still sitting awkwardly on his nose. His brown hair, recently cut to keep it short, has been heavily clipped and moved away from his ears and neck.

"I don't care what you say. I think that these stories are beautiful." I affirm my opinion, crossing my arms to try and stop the debate before it starts. He likes to debate with me on just about everything, from television and books to which member of the staff is the trustworthiest. We both agree that information is being withheld from us, but we also know that we can't get anything out of them, and thus are not really worrying about it.

He writes something else on his new notepad, stopping to think about what he wants to write in between words. It has been five months since he got his first notebook, and since then a new one has come every month. And he has managed to get through one notebook a month. His speech development is progressing, but he is still mostly limited to the notebook. 

_You know it's not much more than glorified sex stories, right?_

Sometimes I wish I'd have taken the first notebook from him to begin with.

"You're missing the point. There's so much more to it than sex." 

He is furiously writing his response, probably another argument he wants to makes in regards to the sexual content of the romance novels I have been reading.

Such as? Do you even see that there's not much more to those stories than love developing from two people having sex together? And not before they have sex, but after.

"Well, of course they have sex together. That's a physical symbol of their love for each other." I retort. He pauses, thinks, and then starts to write. After a moment though, he crosses out what he wrote and writes something else, flopping it down in front of me.

But, there's more to love than… Never mind. I give up! 

He picks up the notebook and sticks it in his pocket, giving me a flustered look as he walks across the room to his bed. He sits down on the edge, his hands reaching for yet another package sent by our "benefactor". In the past five months we've both received gifts from our "benefactor", including several new sets of American clothing for each of us, several books for me, many of them on psychology and finding personal identity, and a few books with models of ships, planes, and tanks for my companion, which he still rejoices over after three months.

"What did you get this time?" I ask, wanting to nonchalantly humor my own curiosity as I cross to him. He looks up, shrugs, and then tears away at the brown paper wrapping, the same paper type as always.

The box under the wrapping is white, about the size of a box of checks, but slightly longer, with a full red maple leaf on it. For some odd reason, the sight of it makes me shudder, and it makes the heat rise in my face.

Red. The color I hate.

"I wonder," his voice comes out shakily, and I look to him, the heat rolling away from me as my concentration on the box wavers. I've heard him talk before this, but he is still a little too weak to speak for any significant length of time. He lifts the lid off of the box, and dumps its contents onto his lap. A pile of folded papers, plus several envelopes tumble out of the box.

"What the?" he asks as he begins to sort the pile out. I watch him carefully, and then notice an envelope with my name on it. Without hesitation, I grab it and open it quickly. Inside is a pair of letters written in freehand on notebook paper, and I unfold each of them. I take the first one and read it, the handwriting a tad graceful, most likely a woman's hand:

Rei,

            I've heard your memory has not quite returned yet. Don't worry about that, it will come back in time. Otherwise, how are you doing?

            I can't write much. We've been traveling so much, with so little time for anything else.

            Anyway, take good care of Kensuke; otherwise I might have to put the moves on him. Just kidding. Later.

I blush, not sure of why I am, but I set down that letter and look to Kensuke. He looks at me and smiles, and I look away, my blush getting deeper. Why am I feeling like this? Maybe he was right; these romance books _are_ going to my brain.

Moving on to the second letter, I see that this one is printed and not so neat, looking more like a man's handwriting:

Rei,

            I'm sure you're angry at the secrecy surrounding everything that has happened since you awoke. Believe me when I tell you it was in your best interests to keep it hidden, from you and everyone else, until now.

            I have compiled most of the information you'll find useful and put it in this box. Also, I've included a small canister with money in it. The key is in the envelope with these letters, along with some instructions on where to meet us in person. 

We will be there on the date listed. If you and Kensuke decide to show, I can share the rest of what we know with you two. If you don't, we will understand and never contact you again, save for one more possible letter.

Take care Rei, and I hope to see you there. 

 I look in the envelope. Sure enough, there is a small brass key inside. I take it out and inspect it, taking in the small details as I turn it over and over.

He pokes my shoulder again, and my attention is once again drawn to the pile in his lap. Instead, a note is shoved into my face.

They're photos from Japan! These were people we knew! 

            A rush of hope and excitement runs through my body, and I push his hand away to get a look at the photographs. Gathering them quickly, I pull them close to my face and spread them in a fan shape, taking in as many details about the people in them as I possibly can.

            "Do you want help?" he asks, reaching to take the pictures from me. His fingers attract my attention, and I follow them, my eyes catching a familiar figure as his finger closes over him.

            "Wait a moment," I tell him, and his fingers retreat from the photo, revealing the young man who'd caught my attention. His dark blue eyes and chestnut hair ring a bell in my mind, and I speak the name that haunted me from before.

            "Ikari."

            I look to my roommate, and he smiles, nodding eagerly. He opens his mouth to speak, but no discernable words come out. Grabbing furiously for his notebook and marker, he scribbles out a message, flipping the notebook around so I can read it.

            _That's Shinji Ikari. You were an EVA pilot like him._

            "EVA?" I ask, the term familiar to me yet escaping my memory, as did most things from the past, hidden behind a wall of nearly impenetrable fog. It feels so lonely, so empty, without knowing what came before.

            The word EVA tumbles through my mind, rolling over and over until it hits that wall. Then, unexpectedly, a flash comes to me in the form of several images.

A hand pressing onto my breast.

            Ikari?

            Slapping Ikari.

            Being slapped. Red.

            The red maple leaf, only this time a half-leaf, with red letters.

I feel another tap on my shoulder, and I return from my mind, looking to my friend. He looks concerned. I'm not quite sure why my heart beats faster when I know he's looking at me, but I find myself about to blush every time I feel his eyes upon me.

He writes quickly in his notebook, his face twisted in thought as he weaved the words onto the pad.

Are you all right? I hope these pictures aren't making you feel bad.

I don't want to worry him, so I shake my head. He seems very fond of my attention, as well as my good mood. He's very considerate, and it almost embarrasses me with how much he dotes over me. Why do I feel like this?

Moving on to my next thought, I look into the pile in his lap for the canister. Sure enough, about the size of a tuna fish can, is the object I seek. Without hesitation, I reach for the canister. But, no sooner do I reach for it than it rolls off his lap away from me and towards the foot of the bed.

I stretch my arm, reaching for it, but still it evades my grasp, almost taunting me as the tips of my fingers graze its surface. I stop for a moment, letting my arm drop to the bed as I draw a deep breath. Maybe if I stretch more I can reach the canister.

Shoving forward, I stretch as far as I can, and my fingers close over the canister. My victory, though warm and delightful, is brief as I slide off the foot of the bed and begin to fall.

A hand grabs the back of my shirt, and for a moment my fall is delayed, the top half of my body floating above the floor for only a moment before I slowly crash to the floor, another body falling on top of mine. He is not heavy, but I feel his presence upon me as if he was four times his weight. Warm feeling rushes through my body, making me uncomfortable and at the same time exciting me, the heat rushing to my face. Such a strange feeling! It makes me think of the feelings the romance writers describe in their novels.

Though only a few seconds have passed, it feels as if we have been in this position for several minutes, his breath hot upon my back and neck, the smell of his clean clothes and body wafting across my nostrils, a combination of soap, shampoo, and a scent I can not identify, something heavier, more subtle than strong.

The moment passes quickly though as he rises to his feet, and then helps me to get up as well. I pivot on my heels, looking into his face inquisitively, wondering if he felt the same way I did. His face is red, and he appears very uncomfortable looking at me. Maybe he does feel the same as I.

He sees my questioning look, and his face changes to a "what?" expression; his eyebrows raised inquisitively eyes open and curious. My face grows hot again: I shouldn't have been staring at him so hard. It's impolite to stare at anybody. I look down, hoping that he'll forget my stare, and we can continue looking through the photos together.

I feel his hand on my shoulder, and then the notepad floats into my field of vision, a single sentence written on it that, in words, sets my heart pounding against my rib cage.

Rei, did I injure you when we fell? 

Why does he insist on me speaking? This note confirms that he is concerned for my safety. Does that mean he cares for me like the men in my romance novels? I don't know what I am supposed to do! Well, I do know, but is that appropriate given the situation? I don't know!

To cover for my uncertainty, I simply shake my head. He smiles at me, his eyes focused on me with a certain intensity I hadn't noticed before. He writes something else on the pad, pausing several times before continuing, and then finally presenting it to me.

_That's a relief. I mean, we've been through a lot together in these past months, and I would hate to see you go through therapy again because of an injury I caused._

"You're right, we have been through a lot together. I've gotten to know you well, and you've been very kind and considerate to me." I watch him turn red, and it sends that same warmth through me again, only this time more comfortable and enjoyable than the first time.

After his color goes back to normal and he stops squirming uneasily, he jots another note on the pad and holds it out for me to read.

_Just returning the favor to someone who did the same._

My mind goes blank. I cannot think of a return to this last comment. Perhaps if my memory was sharper and my amnesia gone, I would be able to recall what it was like for me to feel this before, and how I responded. But now, standing before him, I feel inexperienced and ill prepared to respond.

Every time I am in his arms I feel a sense of security, of being someone. Without his contact I feel alone, frightened that I might not have a life behind my wall of amnesia, possibly not even a purpose. He has told me what I was, what I did, but was never able to tell me the finer details of my life. Without him I would not have any connection to my past, a soulless doll living in a hospital without any knowledge or emotion.

I look him in the eyes, knowing that I need to tell him how I feel, but not sure of how to express it. He seems to read my expression and looks expectedly to me, a silent question in his face waiting to be answered.

Without thinking, I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him, trying to imitate the kisses I had read about in my romance novels. Our lips come together in a clumsy collision, and I feel my teeth bump into his. A small pain runs through my jaw, and I pull back, feeling a bit of regret for my action. His hand has covered his mouth, and he is giving a small expression of pain.

"I'm sorry," I whisper as I drop my arms from around his neck and look to the floor, "I've never kissed before. I'm sorry if I hurt you." I expect him to turn his back on me or to suggest that we go back to the photos and he helps me remember people and their identities.

He surprises me though, when I feel his fingers gently lifting my chin up. His eyes sparkle with that same intensity as before, but only brighter and stronger. He has a broad smile across his lips, and he clears his throat.

"That's alright. I'm not hurt," he tells me, then leans forward and brings his lips to mine, pressing them gently down with his own. Almost on instinct I return the kiss, surprised that my own body knows how to react, and a small rush travels from head to toe, leaving that warmth deep inside of me and awakening a new avenue of feeling for me.

After several moments, he draws back, and breath runs from my mouth as I find myself frozen, partly by surprise, but mostly by a new pleasant feeling I was previously unaware of, happiness deeper than satisfaction, and more heated than embarrassment.

I look to him, and I want his touch, so I throw my arms around him and hug myself as close to him as I can, my own body pressed against his. He seems surprised at my sudden gesture, but he soon has his own arms wrapped around me as well, hugging me tightly.

This new feeling I have, is it love? I don't really know. However, as we end the hug and we go back to the photographs, I feel warmth for my friend I had never noticed before, something stronger than I can remember. I want to try it out though, and see where it ends up taking me. I will speak with him about the letters and money later, but I hope he supports the idea of leaving, of finding out the full truth about my past. After that, I think we should be able to find a new life where I can find myself and, more importantly, I can find what my heart is trying to tell me.


	5. You've Got Some Nerv

3:00 A.M., Munich

            "Have the preparations been made?"

            A few seconds of radio static, then a confident male voice responds, slightly muffled by his baklava, "Yes. I can't believe this bastard survived the first attack."

            "Do not concern yourself with that. Just deliver the package."

            "Roger that. Delivering package, over."

            He turned off his radio and shoved the box gently underneath the bed. The man occupying the bed snorted, but he knew that, with as many machines hooked up to him as there were, he would not be awake when his room would be blown to pieces.

            Hearing a sharp grunt, he turned to watch his female companion punch one of the guards in the face: the gas must not have affected him as well as it had the others. He would have to tell the commander about that.

            He checked the timer on his watch, frozen for the moment. He turned his radio back on, turning the volume down as the static hit his ear.

            "Sir, package has been delivered." He said, watching the timer.

            "Activating counter," his watch beeped, and the timer started.

            5:00…4:59…4:58…4:57…

            "Now, get your asses out of there, over."

            "Roger that, over and out." He changed the radio frequency and looked to his female companion, who was dragging the last guard down the hall. He followed her, picking up the guard's feet and helping her to carry him several rooms down to be thrown on a pile of unconscious hospital staff members and guards.

            "About damn time you helped me with this. It doesn't take that long to set a bomb." She muttered angrily: why did he always have to be such a lazy jerk? Her own baklava was beginning to irritate her, itchy on her neck and hot, particularly after disposing of that last guard: he had actually fought off the effects of the gas and come at her, while that no-good jerk just waltzed into the room and left her to deal with him. At least the new hairstyle she had was cooler under the baklava than her previous mid-back cut.

            "Well, if it wasn't for that old bullet wound, I would've gladly helped you with those guards, but it just keeps acting up." he said, gently closing the door behind them as they left. Their trip to the elevator was brief, and once inside the man checked his radio.

            "How's our security looking?"

            "Everything's fine, don't worry about it now." A female voice answered, "The cameras are off, and the alarms won't activate until we're well out of range. Trust in my skills." The man winked to his female companion, who only shook her head at him.

            "Don't worry your pretty head about it. I have no doubt in your skills." He said over the radio, "You're the best in the world we could hope for." The elevator stopped on the first floor, and the woman pulled off her baklava, wiped the sweat off the back of her neck, and sighed in relief.

            "You know, you looked really sexy back there," the man teased as he removed his own baklava, and she shot a glare at him, "Of course, you always look sexy." As the door opened, she took his hand and reviewed in her mind the part for her false identity once they got outside. Though it was frustrating to have him make fun of her like this, at least he was okay, and she owed her life to him, if not to a few others as well.

            They moved quickly yet casually out of the elevator and into the lobby, past the front desk, and out the sliding doors, keeping their eyes open for patrolling police officers and wandering civilians.

            "You know what?" She asked him as they made their way to the pickup point, thinking on the past several months of chaotic activity, bombings, and bittersweet revenge, "This job really sucks sometimes."

            An explosion rocked the hospital, and a fifth floor window was blown out in a grand dance of fire, shattered glass, and what remained of the room the bomb was in. She looked back for only a moment, and then redirected her eyes forward. She knew that if they didn't finish the mission they would try to do it again, and that it wouldn't stop until all those aware of the project were dead.

            "Well," he said, motioning to the explosion, "It _does_ have its high points." He flashed his million-dollar grin, the one that made his rough-shaven face, casual-to-the-point-of-sloppy-dress, and otherwise unkempt appearance disappear under a mask of magnetic charm.

            "What do you mean 'high points'?" she asked, turning to look at him "You call that a 'high point'?" When she noticed his smile though, she rolled her eyes, "You're such a jerk sometimes," not sounding serious as she partially unzipped the front of her black mission jacket, the cool night air relieving the heat held underneath her shirt next to her skin.

She reached into the jacket and clutched the ring she wore next to the white cross on her necklace and smiled: he had given it to her six months after the attack, after he had saved them all. Even three and a half years later it felt like the span of ten minutes.

Suddenly, a tiny black car pulled up alongside them, stopping on the curb. They both looked around quickly, and then slipped into the vehicle, which drove away with them without a moment's pause.

Safely in the back seat, the front passenger turned to them, a smile on his slightly aged features and gray hair combed back neatly. His kindly eyes met that of the woman's, and he cleared his throat to address both of them.

"Excellent work," he said, pulling a manila envelope from somewhere out of view of them in the front seat, "That makes it three confirmed top targets dead and close to eight lesser targets gone. By the way Major, Aida and Ayanami are both doing very well." With that, he laid the envelope in the woman's lap, and she nodded pleasantly.

"Good. I'm glad to hear that. When we send another package, may I write a letter to send along?" The older man nodded, and he leaned a little further towards both of them, his eyes traveling to the younger man. How he managed to keep so handsome and charming with the ladies was beyond him, particularly since he was no longer single.

"By the way, I have a new mission for you," he turned his head to face the woman, "A solo mission."

"Concerning who?" he asked, taking the manila envelope from his partner's lap and starting to open it. The older man shook his head, and the younger stopped his action, a look of intrigue on his face.

"No, that is not your mission. That is for the Major to handle. Your mission concerns Ayanami and Aida."

Automatically the young man knows what the seriousness in the commander's voice meant. He handed the envelope back to the Major, giving her a small grin, and then turning his attention to the commander.

"How long?" Were the first words to escape his lips, his thoughts returning to the plans they had made in the beginning for such an occasion. If there was still time, they would be able to help them. If not, they would be on their own, a situation that could prove far worse for them than they could ever imagine.

The commander looks away, his eyes fixing themselves on the world outside the car's front passenger window. He hated doing all of this: the bombings in England, then France, and now in Germany. But, he knew that, until all those who knew of their operations were sworn to silence or removed entirely, they would never see peace. They had survived, and their enemies were plotting the same fate for them that they were carrying out upon their attackers.

"They've been getting dangerously close to them in the past few months. At best, I'd say we have between five and seven months until they're discovered." He sighed, and then brought his stare back to the Major's unkempt husband, "Given our schedule though, we can only send one person to handle this."

"And so you select me?"

"Other than the Major, you are the most recognizable person to both Ayanami and Aida. I would go myself, but I fear I wouldn't be able to keep up with the two of them." He said as he pulled another envelope from the front seat, handing it to the young man, who opens it and dumps the contents onto his lap.

"Kallistrat Gavril? Looks like I'll have to brush up on my Russian." He chuckles a little, mostly to reassure himself that this all isn't some sort of bad dream. When he doesn't wake up, he only shrugs and lets his back come to rest against the seat.

"Commander, why are you sending him? Of all people, I should be the one handling this. They both know me…" the Major began to protest.

"That is why we can't send you. You are the most exposed member of our group. Their agents would be able to pick you out of a large crowd without complication. I am sorry, but it is the best interests of the safety of the group, Ayanami, and Aida." He knew the Major cared a lot about the safety of the children, but that affection could quickly turn into a weapon against her if she became revealed.

"Alright, you win this time. But I still don't like sitting here and not being able to help them." She finally conceded, opening her envelope and looking inside. When she saw the contents and realized what they meant, she smiled mischievously. So this was why she wasn't assigned to them.

Her husband noticed her grin and looked to her, "What's so funny?" She took notice of his look and smiled.

"Oh nothing. It's just that my next assignment is to extract information from a cute boy. An easy mission."

The commander nodded, a smile crossing his lips, "Yes, you seem to be perfectly…suitable for the mission."

The young man only looked at the two of them, a little concerned, mostly for himself. Who knew what was coming on this next mission? The enemy could have well over a dozen agents waiting to spring a trap on either him or the kids.

_Oh well. I guess it's too late to quit this and go back to my garden._


	6. Rendevous

            Packing my clothes into a bag I'd purchased with the extra money from the tin, I look across to him, his eyeglasses catching the morning light. He looks so different now than the week before when he had kissed me, a small, soft glow surrounding him. I know it's just a trick of the light, but it gives him an appeal I cannot accurately describe.

            "How are you doing over there?" I ask him. He looks up from his own packing, neatly folding his clothes and gently sliding them into the bag he bought with his portion of the money, and smiles warmly.

            "I like the way you're wearing your hair," he tells me, voice stronger but still shaky. I reach with my left hand and touch the barrettes holding the hair away from my ears, then gently brush the bangs upward. Ever since I came out of the coma I've let my hair grow out to my shoulders, and it seems strangely comfortable. 

The night before, when we had finished looking through the photographs sent to us, all my depictions are with short hair, my gaze detached and face expressionless. Whenever I ask him why, he only shrugs. Why do I see in those photos, a ghost staring back at me, an indifferent phantom of my past? He tells me I think too much about it, and that everything will be better explained later by our "benefactors".

I stop where I have resumed, sliding my last pair of panties into the bag and reaching to my back pocket for the tickets and letters. I bring them forward, looking at them for considerable time, studying the creases I have deepened into the letters; I must have read them a hundred times since they arrived a week earlier. And still, despite my best efforts, I fail to draw any old memories from the corner of my mind.

I feel his hand on my shoulder, and I bring my eyes to meet his. He's concerned about me, and I know he wants to ask me what's going on. Taking a deep breath in my mind, I manage a smile.

"Are you sure about this, I can unpack us right now?" He shakes his head, wrapping his arms around me and hugging me close. I can feel his breath against the back of my neck, and I lift my hand up to touch his face, smooth and soft, warm and comforting. So understanding, so patient with me, and willing to put his own visions on hold to help me: I don't deserve someone this wonderful.

"Come on, let's get out of here and get on that train." He says, gently patting me on the head and running his fingers through my hair. I feel a tingle, a sensation delightful and tender all at once coursing through my body. I enjoy the feel of his touch, how it makes me feel like I exist, that someone outside of me recognizes that I am real. I nod, and he pulls away, giving my hip an affectionate squeeze before he crosses the room to his bag. My face grows hot, and I cast my eyes to the floor

A moment later, I feel his hand on my shoulder. He is carrying his own bag as well as my own. Why did I just stand there, not aware of anything except his last action, like a puppet without its strings? Did I know what to do? I am not sure.

"You ready?" He smiles despite the weight of both bags. I nod, and he crosses to the door. I follow, opening the door for him, and I stand in the doorway, blocking his path.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice dropping in concern. Once again I feel paralyzed, unable to put into words what I want to say, to express how much thanks and affection I have for him.

Thinking back, my mind returns to an American movie from months earlier, and how the lead female had handled her situation with the boy. But, I was pretty sure I didn't want to push it too far. Oh well, here I go.

Looking into his eyes, I feel the strain against my heart and throat. Am I too scared to say what I want to him? I steady my resolve, swallow hard, and open my already drying mouth.

"Thank you. I really appreciate all you have done for me."

"Only for you, Rei."

I gasp. He is doing this all because of me and only for me! I don't fully understand what makes him act that way, but I do realize that I would do the same for him. Without hesitating, I lean forward, pressing my lips against his. The tenderness of the kiss excites me, and from the sound of the duffle bags hitting the floor I believe he is excited as well, the sensation rolling through my body and warming my veins.

We pull from the kiss slowly, neither really eager to pull away, and he swallows hard, then bends down to grab the bags again. This time I let him through, following close behind him as we make our way to the elevator.

I press the button to descend to the lobby, and I smile at him as the doors close. Soon we will gone from here, and once we get to the train station we will be that much closer to finding my past, and will be able to plan for our future together.

The elevator opens, and the two of us proceed to the street, where a taxi we had called earlier waited for us. The fresh air feels good as the wind pushes it across my cheeks. The taxi driver loads our bags and opens the back door for us, and we climb inside quietly.

"Train station?" he asks, his voice thick with the native accent. I nod, and he starts up the taxi, slowly pulling away from the hospital. I give one final look at our rapidly disappearing home, but find a comfort in the answers that await us. I look to Kensuke, and he smiles back at me, gently reaching over and holding my hand.

"Things are going to work out Rei; I'd bet my life on it." His eyes are so gentle and caring. It makes my heart ache with delight, a feeling I can't quite understand. Is this love?

We ride for what seems like an hour, the world outside our windows little more than a dull roar and an even duller blur. Rain is starting to fall, and its gentle pattering on the taxi's roof relaxes me and lets me drift to sleep.

Unit 02 is in danger. I emerge into the stormy day with the Lance of Longinus. Unit 02 cannot reach the target. Commander Ikari has given me orders to use the lance. Rearing back, and hurl the Lance toward its target. The clouds part as the Lance plunges through them.

"Rei, we're here," Kensuke says, nudging me gently. My eyes open, and I see the rain is falling harder than before. The train station is bustling, people walking quickly under umbrellas, businessmen talking into their cellular phones, and the cleaning staff sweeping up the mess from a knocked over garbage can.

Kensuke paid the taxi cab driver, and we got out. The driver got our bags from the trunk and deposited them at our feet, climbed back into the cab, and drove away. For a moment, I froze, unsure of what to do next. After being in the hospital for so long, it felt alien to be here. Yet somehow this feeling is not new to me, the sensation of being separate from everything, yet somehow connected.

"Rei, our train is leaving in fifteen minutes, we should probably find it." I nod, and we pick up our bags and head into the station. We check the schedule boards, and see that our train is on time, Platform 9. Paying close attention to the signs, we navigate the station's halls and onto the track platforms.

Number 6.

            I look ahead and see someone that stands out from the regular crowd. He is tall, with jet-black hair and is dressed in a single-breasted black dress coat and matching pants. His skin is pallid, almost sickly in appearance, and a pair of dark eyes seems to lock on to me. He begins his advance, slow and measured.

            Number 7.

            I wonder if he's with the benefactors. I don't remember seeing his face in any of the photographs. His stare is making me uncomfortable, and I move in closer to Kensuke, who looks to me in surprise.

            "Rei?"

            "That man, Kensuke. He's staring at me."

            Number 8.

            The man stops in front of us, his dark eyes fixed on me. With a large, toothy smile, he speaks slowly, "Rei Ayanami and Kensuke Aida?"

            "We are," Kensuke, responds, his voice shaking slightly, "And you are?"

            "Dimitri Ivanostra. I have been sent to pick the two of you up."

            Though his tone was friendly, Rei did not trust him. Of all things, she knew what was familiar, and this man was not.

            "If we don't hurry Kensuke, we'll miss the train." I take his arm, ready to walk away, when I notice the gun in Mr. Ivanostra's hand.

            "I think not, Ms. Ayanami." He motions with his gun, and we begin walking ahead of him. He presses the barrel against my lower back, and adds, "If you do anything out of line, I'll shoot you where you stand.

            Number 9.

            Out of the corner of my left eye, someone dressed in gray coveralls charges us with a trash cart, slamming head on into Mr. Ivanostra and sending him sprawling. The figure in gray levels a gun at Mr. Ivanostra, and he smiles, his rough-shaven face and long, dark brown ponytail bringing a photograph into my mind, connecting with a name.

            "Mr. Rioji?" I ask.

            "You've got it, sweetheart," his eyes never leaving his target, "Aida, get over to the train. I wouldn't blink funny, Mr. Ivanostra."

            "Gavril," a female voice called from behind us, "I've called for backup." I turn, and another familiar face comes into focus. Short purple hair and kindly brown eyes meet my vision, and relief washes over me.

            "Major Katsuragi."

            She nods and goes over to Mr. Ivanostra, picking up his gun, "Kaji, let's go. Rei, Kensuke, follow me." She turns around and walks toward the train on track 9, and we follow wordlessly. I cast one glance back at Mr. Ivanostra, but his attention is on Kaji, who is backing up after us.

            Once around the corner, I see several of the station guards advancing towards our position. I feel my pace quicken: what if they stop us?

            Major Katsuragi ushers us onto the train. I look to her, and her eyes meet mine. Though fierce, they hold a special softness that I believe is directed at Kensuke and me.

            The guards speak to her, their Russian strong and curt. They seize Mr. Rioji, but she stops them with a few phrases of her own, pulling out her identification and showing it to them. They hesitate for a moment and then release him, and Major Katsuragi speaks some more with the guards. Within moments they have left, and the two of them climb aboard with us.

            Major Katsuragi begins to speak with us, but we can't understand her Russian. She stops in mid-phrase, clears her throat, and starts over.

            "Hello Rei, Kensuke. We're both glad to see you two here, safe and sound".

            "Indeed," Mr. Rioji adds as he unzips his coveralls, "And you don't need to be so formal, Kaji works." Stepping out of the coveralls I see he is dressed in suit, looking like one of those famous actors I'd seen in a magazine, black suit jacket open, white dress shirt open at the top two buttons without a tie and untucked from the black dress pants. He tucked the pistol he had back into a leg holster just under his left leg, and as his jacket draped open further I could see a second pistol in a shoulder holster.

            "Kaji, get on the line and let the others know we have Rei and Kensuke," Major Katsuragi says as she turns to us, "Once again, I'm glad to see the two of you, safe and sound. You've grown your hair out Rei; it looks good on you. And Kensuke, you've gotten taller, and certainly more handsome. Rei, I am jealous."

            I feel my face grow hot again, and I turn my eyes to Kensuke, who is blushing horribly. I can hear Major Katsuragi laugh, but it seems distant as I stare at him.

            "Yes sir, we have both of them, and we're on the train. Yes sir, I understand," Kaji finishes as he clicks his cell phone closed, "Well, we had best get to our boxcar before the train seriously gets moving. You two must be exhausted and probably have a thousand questions to ask."

            I nod, picking up my bag and following Kaji and Major Katsuragi deeper into the train. Three boxcars down they open the door for Kensuke and me, letting us choose which beds we'd like first. The boxcar is roomy, obviously an expensive car, with four beds bunked and a bench for looking out the window at the countryside.

             A question comes to my mind, "Major Katsuragi…"

            "Misato," she politely corrects, "We no longer work for Nerv."

            "At least we're no longer official," Kaji adds.

            I take a deep breath, "I don't remember much of Nerv, but I do have a question: Who was that man at the station?"

            "Mr. Ivanostra? Most likely an agent of Seele."

            _Seele!_

            The name rings in my head, a certain chill finding its way down my spine, cold enough to hurt. Seven eyes in a symbol stare at me, and I remember something…

_Lilith?_

_            A dying child…It's me! Why is she choking me?_

            "Rei, Rei," Kensuke's voice calls me back, his eyes concerned, "Are you alright?"

            I don't want him to be concerned, so I nod. The train is moving now, and I lay down on the bed, my mind drifting away, swept along by the moving countryside. More questions float across my thoughts, but I am suddenly tired and want to sleep. Pulling the blanket over my body, the sudden weakness washes over me my eyelids fall heavily closed.

            Someone climbing into the bunk wakes me, startling at first. A pair of arms wrap around my waist and pull me close. I can smell him, clean laundry filling my senses. I open my eyes. The night has come, and my eyes adjust. Misato and Kaji are laying together, quiet and tucked into each other, looks of satisfaction on their faces.

            "I couldn't sleep. I think it's because it is the first time we've been out of the hospital, and I was lonely looking at Misato and Kaji. Can I spend the night with you?"

            I smile to myself. I admit that it does feel more comfortable having him next to me, and I know that he is only lonely. And it feels natural having him here with me, by my side, holding me in his protection. My sudden vulnerability surprises me, but I accept it and strangely desire it, not wanting him to leave.

            "Stay with me."

            I can't see him, yet I know he's smiling. I let him settle in and reposition myself so that he's cradling me. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, and though it tickles I relax, my eyelids getting heavy.

            Before I fade out, I feel a delight come over me, and I whisper the words that have long evaded my thoughts.

            "Goodnight Kensuke. I...love…you."


	7. Reconsideration

            I wake to the morning light, eyes heavy with sleep and senses just starting to do their job again; the soft gleam of morning light, the smell of sheets and my horrid morning breath, the taste of old spit, and the touch of an arm slung across my shoulder.

            Rolling over slowly, I see her still asleep, the light from the window making her glow, like an angel lying next to me.

            "If only that were the truth," I tell her, affectionately brushing her cheek. She smiles, and reaches over me again, pulling me closer to her. One of the straps of her tank top hangs lazily off one shoulder, giving my mind thoughts with which to occupy, and they are certainly delicious. She would probably kill me if she knew I was thinking like this.

            "But you're not a mind reader, are you?"

            I lie there for a while, not sure because my alarm clock is to my back, and slowly her eyes slide open slowly focusing on me. She gives me a smile.

            "What time is it?"

            "I wouldn't know; someone has kept me from facing the clock."

            "Not my fault."

            "Of course not." I gently poke her nose, and she crunches her face at me, shoving me away as she rolls to her feet, sitting on the edge of the bed.

            "What was that for?"

            "I know what you were thinking about," she casts a friendly yet disbelieving smile back at me, "Anytime you're this cuddly in the morning is when you want some. I can read you like a book."

            How does she do it?

            I sit up as well, the slight ache of muscle use a soft complaint of last night's activities. It has been several months since our last major argument; seems like some sort of world record if you ask me. By now she's gotten to her feet and pulled her panties on. I reach for her, hoping to snatch her by the waistband and pull her back down.

            Her eyes catch my movement though, and she slaps my hand.

            "Don't even…"

            "Think about it? I already have." I watch her, ready to dodge any incoming blows, her eyes focused and frustrated at me. "Of course, if you're not interested in what I'm proposing…" My hand shoots up to her left hip, gently caressing the supple flesh.

            Once again my hand is moved away, more gently this time, a blush in her cheeks, "No, I am not." Her voice quavers slightly as she turns away from me. Hesitating for only a moment, I reach out and grab her butt.

            A whirl of red hair, and her hard blues stare at me with venom, face deeply red.

            "Shinji, stop being an idiot!"

            I know I am risking it, but each day I get better at reading her signals and maneuvering past her temper. I scoot over to the bed and gently wrap an arm around her waist. I give her a gentle pull, and she sits down next to me.

            "I'm sorry, I just can't help myself," my hands close over her shoulders in a hug, "But you're just so sexy I can't resist."

            She looks at me, "Even when I'm pissed off?"

            "Especially when you're pissed."

            She looks me in the eyes, the anger beginning to subside. I see my opportunity and begin to lay my kisses on her, starting at her left shoulder and progressing along it to her neck.

            "No…Shinji…stop," she protests, her breathing getting heavier. Even her fiery temper can't hold a candle to the heat of her passions, and she knows it. She reaches behind her and grabs the back of my neck, gently squeezing it.

            "I hate you."

            "I love you too," I respond. With how long we've been together, it's no surprise we are in love. I know I should propose to her, but I just don't feel like the time is right for asking. It feels like I have unfinished business to attend to.

            My hands have now begun to travel, taking in the soft white expanse of her skin, gently working their way up to her breasts. Even now I can feel her skin tighten and react to my touch, her breathing heavy and sharp when I find a sensitive spot.

            "You know, we have to stop doing this in the mornings, or else neither of us will get anything done."

            "I don't care," she tells me, "And besides, I think we are getting something done."

            "I meant other than each other."

            "You're the one who started it, Shinji."

            I shut up. She's right, I am. Instead I focus on the task at hand, gently starting to slide the tank top up and over her head.

            The doorbell rings.

            I stop, staring out the open bedroom door, trying to will the doorbell not to ring again. I feel her hand upon my neck though, pulling me back to my mission.

            It rings again.

            "Damn it," I stop caressing her, climbing out of bed and into a pair of shorts.

            "Who do you think it is?"

            I turn back to her, my own mind trying to answer that question, "I don't know, but I intend to find out." I curse quietly as I cross the apartment to the door. Whoever it could be was going to get an earful for interrupting our private time.

            Looking through the peephole, I see trimmed gray hair and a black business suit. A relaxed and wise face stares forward, and I recognize him. I wonder if I should open the door.

            "Who is it?" she calls as she emerges from the bedroom, a sari covering her hips.

            "Fuyutsuki."

            "Ikari," his muffled voice comes through the door, "Please open the door. We need to talk."

            "There is nothing to talk about, Fuyutsuki. If you think…"

            "Let him in, Shinji."

            "Asuka?"

            "Let's hear him out, otherwise he won't leave us alone."

            Lowering my head, I unlock the door and open it. She steps forward and smiles.

            "Welcome Fuyutsuki."

            "Thank you, Asuka." He walks in slowly, taking a seat on our couch, "So, how are things?" He looks truly interested, but I don't want him to stay any longer than he has to.

            "What is this about?"

            "Yes Fuyutsuki, why did you come here?" Asuka adds, placing her hands on her hips. I know she is trying to keep herself composed despite her fears, fears that took us two and a half years to quell.

            "I like what you've done to the place. You two certainly know how to decorate."

            "Don't dodge our question. Fuyutsuki, the only reason we let you in was to hear what you had to tell us." I want to say more, but Asuka shoots me a warning look, shaking her head.

            "Asuka, you're looking well too, much better than the last time I saw you. Have things been well?"

            "Yes, things are well," she answers for me, "Fuyutsuki, why did you come? You drop us occasional letters, even called us sporadically, and yet you've never come to visit us. What could possibly be so important?"

            He sighs, and then pulls a small envelope from his jacket pocket, "Here is some more money for expenses. The reason why I came today is to tell you that you're in danger."

            "Danger," I ask, "from whom?"

            "Seele, the same organization that has been hunting us for the past five years."

            "How did they know where to find us?"

            "I don't know. What I do know is that they are aware of everyone who's still alive. That's why I want the two of you to come with me, stay within the safety of numbers."

            Asuka looks to me, but all I can do is stare angrily at Fuyutsuki, "Maybe if you hadn't contacted us so often we could've stayed hidden. Forget it."

            "What? Ikari, no."

            "We're not coming with you. For five years we've tried our hardest to forget everything you, my father, and Nerv did to us," I cross to Asuka, who wraps an arms around me, "So you can just take your money and get out of here."

            "Ikari…Shinji. I don't want to hurt you anymore. I am sorry that we did what we did. Your father paid for it, and I still bear the burden of my actions. Please Shinji, you have to forgive."

            "Why should I forgive you? My father nearly destroyed our lives, all of them: Asuka still has trouble sleeping from time to time, he willingly put Touji and Rei in danger, and he certainly didn't care about me. And what's worse, you stood by and did nothing."

            "There was little I could do Shinji," Fuyutsuki looked at me, his face stoic but eyes quietly pleading with me, "I admired your father, but I was in a position where I had no real power. I am sorry Shinji."

            I look at Asuka, who has retracted into me, tears falling softly down her cheek. It pains me to see her like this, but whenever Nerv or hints of it emerge, she gets upset and starts behaving more like a frightened child.

            "Fuyutsuki, I want you to leave now."

            "Ikari…"

            "Now."

            He rose, removing a card from his jacket and setting it down on our coffee table, "Here is a number if you wish to contact me. I will leave now. Call me if you change your mind."

            With that, he left, carefully closing the door behind him.

            "Good riddance," I say to the closed door, and then help her over to the couch, "Are you okay?"

            "Yeah, I'll be alright," she says between sniffs, "It's just that, every time Nerv comes up…"

            "I know Asuka. It's alright." I wrap my arms around her shoulders and hug her close to me, trying to calm her down more. Nerv had nearly shattered her life and sanity, a miracle I had been able to bring her this far back after five years.

            "Don't worry about it. I won't let anything happen to you."

            After the mind-rape incident, Asuka had been a mess. On top of that, the battle against the S2 Evas had been badly damaging to all of us, causing Asuka to slip even deeper into a psychological shell. And the letters and phone calls from Fuyutsuki hadn't helped, always bringing up old memories. However, his visit had been the final straw. I wanted nothing to do with him or Nerv ever again.

            "I love you Shinji."

            I smile and looked into her eyes. They were soft and tear-lined, but relieved. She would be all right.

            "You know what, I'll cook dinner tonight."

            She chuckled softly, "Good idea. I'm not bad at cooking, but you're far better than I am."

            "But Misato was the worst."

            We both laughed at that. Misato could've killed an Angel with her cooking. I wonder how she's doing.

            Suddenly, Asuka lunges forward, pressing her lips hard against mine, the rush enough to make me lose control for a moment; her earlier mood returning. The heat begins to rise, and in moments her sari is on the floor.

            "Love me Shinji, I don't want to be alone."

            "You aren't, and you won't be ever again."

            Our lovemaking continues, the two of us soon naked and lying together on the couch.

            "Keep going," she implores, her cheeks red and eyes shimmering with desire. I smile and nod, leaning forward to kiss her before I continue.

            The doorbell rings.

            I start to sit up, but she grabs me and pulls me back down, laying more kisses on me, "Just ignore it."

            I follow her lead, continuing with my kisses and caresses. It can wait, whatever it is. We are enjoying ourselves, and nothing can interrupt us.

            The doorbell rings again.

            "Come back in a few hours!" I sit up and shout at the door.

            The next sound I hear is a gunshot, and the lock shatters, metal bits flying everywhere. Asuka lets out a startled scream, and I fall on top of her, the two of us rolling to the floor. I grab my shorts and pull them on, handing Asuka her panties and shirt.

            A second shot rings out, and I hear more metal go flying, followed by a heavy thud against the door. This is not good. We live on the fourth floor of the apartment building, and the front door is our only option for escape.

            "Come on," I say, quickly rising and dashing across the room to the kitchen. I can hear her matching my stride, and she collides with me as a skid to a stop. Grabbing a carving knife, I hand it to her; grabbing another knife and cutting my palm open in the process. White pain flashes in my mind, and I bite my lower lip to keep from shouting.

            Another thump, and this time I hear the door swing open, small wooden splinters scattering about the room. I duck behind the counter, and she does the same.

            "Find them and kill them," a male voice says, his voice cold and serious.

            "Sir," a female voice responds, followed by two other male voices.

            "Four," she whispers in my ear. I nod and look at her. She is scared, but her body is tensed and ready to spring. I ca feel my on heart in my throat, but I know I need to focus if we want to survive.

            We hear them moving, two of them toward the bedroom and one of them toward the kitchen. His pace is quick, only a few seconds from rounding the corner and finding us.

            Gripping the knife tightly in my uninjured hand, I imagine where I'll strike; the head, the gut, the leg…

            He swings around the corner!

            I spring forward, ramming my weight into him and bringing my knife down with one hard stab. I feel the connection and the blood, but don't realize anything until he starts trying to scream, his voice little more than gurgled cries for help. I look at him quickly, and his eyes connect with mine, frightened and wild, as he tries to pull my hand away from his neck. Reacting to the danger, I stab one more time, and his cries cease, the body going limp.

            "Shinji!" I hear Asuka scream, followed by several gunshots. I look to Asuka, who is holding the dead man's pistol in both hands, smoke diminishing as it pours out of the barrel. I look in the direction of the pistol's aim and see another man in a suit, lying on the ground and groaning, his pistol also on the floor.

            Rising quickly, I dash over to the pistol, picking it up. Two bullets fly by my head, and I dive forward, crawling over to the couch. Two more gunshots follow me, barely missing my shoulder and my neck, and I roll over, aiming the pistol in the direction of the incoming shots, the couch obstructing my aim and view. I fire back and hear two bodies in fast motion.

            Rising quickly, I pop up over the couch and look for a target. Spotting a moving suit, I squeeze off four shots, the man dropping to his knees. A fifth shot rings out, glancing my left shoulder and yet making a sizeable hole in the flesh and shattering bone. I collapse, letting out a cry of hot pain as the gun drops to the floor.

            A woman dressed in a suit, blond hair in a ponytail and hardened gray eyes comes around the corner of the couch, kicking the gun away from me and leveling a gun at my head.

            "I'm impressed, Shinji Ikari. However, I can't congratulate you for failing to kill me. Now, die quietly."

            "No one messes with Shinji," I hear Asuka's voice, cold and deadly, followed by a shot that splatters the lady's face, blood landing on everything, including myself, "That's my job."

            As the pain continues, I feel myself getting faint, the world starting to fade from sight. Asuka kneels above me, slaps me a couple of times to clear my head, and through teary eyes she talks to me, trying to keep me awake.

            "Don't worry Shinji, I'll get help." 


End file.
